


day 1

by bibliosexual



Series: the hunger games [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M, Panic, The Arena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: Allison smooths her hands down his chest soothingly. “Just breathe,” she orders. “You’ll do better than you think.”Overhead, an alarm shrills. Stiles sees black spots dance in front of his vision.“It’s time,” Allison says, pushing him gently back.All Stiles can think is “Oh god oh god oh god” on an unhelpful repeat. The glass tube around the platform seals itself shut with a small whoosh, and then he’s off to die.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [nico-the-grace](http://nico-the-grace.tumblr.com/) brought me back from the dead re: this series: "After a couple of hours reading every fanfic of yours I could find (they are all wonderful, btw), I stumbled upon you Hunger Games au and got completely addicted. I hope I'm not bothering you or anything, but could you at least say what you think happened after part 4? It could literally be 10 words and I'd be jumping around in joy."
> 
> Spoiler alert: I wrote more than 10 words.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/155464270761/after-a-couple-of-hours-reading-every-fanfic-of) on my tumblr.

The thing is, when you’re a Peacekeeper’s kid, no one wants to be your friend. It’s like being Darth Vader’s kid or something (if anyone from District 7 besides Stiles knew anything about _Star Wars_ , that is). And if your jaw’s shaped a little funny and you have asthma and a lisp, no one wants to be your friend then, either. He and Scott were kind of a match that way. And even when Scott outgrew the lisp, they stayed best bros for life.

Stiles can’t decide what’s worse, the fact that it’s the night before the Games or the fact that the news just aired an interview with Scott. He’s standing in the main square back home, in front of the ugly-ass statue of the mayor that everyone always graffitis on. Stiles bets the cameramen thought the setting would be patriotic or something.

The news crew is interviewing everyone who knows the tributes, not just Scott, so Scott only gets half a minute to talk.

“I believe in Stiles,” he says while he stares earnestly into the camera. The worst thing is that Stiles knows he means it; Scott has a terrible poker face. He really does think Stiles is going to last more than five seconds in the arena. He really is going to be that surprised tomorrow, and that devastated. “He may not know anything about weapons, but he’s the smartest person I know. He was going to be valedictorian. Those other tributes better watch out. He’ll out-think them all.”

Stiles replays it again and again, curled up in a little ball in the dark on his bed.

The last time he saw his dad—the last time he’ll probably ever see his dad, now—was right before he got on the train. His dad spent the whole time pacing, reminding Stiles in a rush how to hit, how to fight back, flashbacks to lessons Stiles was never very good at. He never could pay attention before, not when he thought it had nothing to do with him. No one would dare touch a Peacekeeper’s kid. It’s probably one of the reasons everyone except Scott hated him on the playground.

He knows a few things, sure, in a kind of textbook way, but let’s face it, if someone comes at him with a stick (or worse), he’s probably going to freeze up, hands held up uselessly in front of his face, and let them beat him to a pulp.

It’s more than payback for every time he pranked Jackson Whittemore back home and then stood back to watch it unfold, delighting in how much Jackson wanted to punch his head in but couldn’t.

*

A minute before he’s set to be sent up into the arena, Allison darts forward and hugs him. He can feel her fiddling with something on his vest as she pulls back.

“Hidden knife,” she whispers with a wink, because of course she has knives on her. Of course. “They’ve got the tributes spaced out in a circle around the edge of a field. There’s a small armory in the middle. A lot of people are going to die there. Don’t be one of them. Just focus on getting out of there. And don’t let anyone get in your way.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Stiles gets out. He’s distantly aware that he’s hyperventilating. “You’d gut them all in the blink of an eye. But you know I’m more likely to stab myself by accident with this thing than get anyone else, right?”

Allison smooths her hands down his chest soothingly. “Just breathe,” she orders. “You’ll do better than you think.”

Overhead, an alarm shrills. Stiles sees black spots dance in front of his vision.

“It’s time,” Allison says, pushing him gently back.

All Stiles can think is “Oh god oh god oh god” on an unhelpful repeat. The glass tube around the platform seals itself shut with a small whoosh, and then he’s off to die.

*

Stiles isn’t sure what’s happening, honestly.

There’s blinding sunlight, and a cannon booming in the distance, and then a body is slamming into him from the side, almost knocking him off his feet and certainly knocking him off the platform into the grass.

“ _Run_ ,” growls whoever it is. Behind them, the air fills with shrieks. Stiles obligingly lets himself be shoved away into the safety of the trees.

It’s not until they’ve been careening around in the woods for what feels like forever and Stiles is clutching at a stitch in his side and shaking so bad he can barely hold it together that his tunnel vision clears enough for him to realize who he’s running with—Derek—and the rather obvious fact that there’s a knife sticking out of the back of Derek’s shoulder.

Stiles stops short.

Derek looks like an impatient watchdog, alert and not even a little out of breath and clearly wondering why Stiles can’t run at breakneck speed indefinitely or why Stiles would be freaked out by _a freaking knife stuck in Derek’s freaking back_.

Stiles almost wants to laugh, but he doesn’t have the breath for it.

And then it hits Stiles for the first time what just happened. Derek could’ve—in fact, probably should’ve—just run for cover, or, better yet, plowed a bloody path right through the other tributes to scoop up a healthy armful of weapons to take away with him. Instead, he ran for Stiles. It’s probably why he got stabbed. It’s definitely why he’s in this arena completely unarmed right now.

Something in Stiles’ brain switches over, and suddenly he’s stumbling forward, babbling like mad. Something along the lines of _Oh god, you got stabbed, we should take it out except then you’ll bleed more, oh god blood, we have to disinfect it, here, I can make a bandage, I’ll rip up my shirt_ —

Derek just reaches back, plucks it out with a little wince like it’s no more than a splinter, and wipes the blood off on his pants before sticking it in his belt, presumably for stabbing some tributes later. Stiles is shocked into silence. Right. Werewolf. He keeps forgetting all the things Derek’s capable of.

“Come on, we have to keep moving,” Derek urges.

Stiles doesn’t move. “ _We_? I mean, not that I’m arguing, I definitely want you on my side, especially while you’re standing there all insta-healing with a knife, but… wouldn’t you last longer on your own? Or is this about how you’re all ‘in love with me’ or whatever?” He air-quotes it because it’s honestly still having trouble sinking in. That someone like _Derek Hale_ would be into him. “We never even _talked_ back in District 7. I mean, as far as I can remember. It’s crazy.”

Derek shoves Stiles against a tree. “Yeah, but _they_ don’t know that,” he growls in Stiles’ ear. “As far as they know, I’ve been following you around District 7 for _years_ , pining my heart out over you.”

“So you don’t really like—” Stiles starts to say.

“Microphones,” Derek hisses. “Shut up. Don’t be an idiot. If you’re going to be honest, you better fucking _whisper_. You’ve already almost ruined everything. If we’re lucky, they’re more focused on the armory battle right now and aren’t going to broadcast us.”

Oh. “So you don’t have a crush on me,” Stiles whispers back. Well, wheezes, more like. He’s still catching his breath.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t have time to fall in love. It’s like Erica said. You’re an asset. As long as the audience loves us, they love me. If I let you die, all that goes away. I have to do more than just say I’m in love with you in pre-game interviews. They’ve got to see some _evidence_.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Now come on. We have to find a defensible position, get some supplies.”

Stiles can’t argue with that.

A little awkwardly, Derek unclenches his fists from where he’s got Stiles pinned by his jacket to the tree. Stiles stumbles a little under the sudden lack of pressure.

He’s probably going to have bruises on his back later.

On the bright side, it’s a lot better than being dead.

*

That night (because they’ve survived the whole first day, incredibly, by hiding in a cave), Stiles wiggles around to lie on his side facing Derek and whispers, “So why did you pick me as your fake love interest? My amazing jawline?”

Derek snorts. “Hardly.”

Stiles waits, and eventually Derek goes on, “You’re one of the few tributes I know beyond a name and a face. You’re from my district. And for all your flaws, and there are _many_ , I can respect what you did for Scott. And you’re—” He cuts himself off abruptly, fiddling with a thread on the sleeve of his jacket.

“I’m what?” Stiles presses.

Derek shakes his head, glancing at Stiles almost shyly. “Forget it. You’re already annoying. I’m not going to make it worse with flattery.”

“Oh, _really_? I’ll just pester you about it later, then.”

Derek huffs and rolls over so his back’s to Stiles. Stiles can’t help grinning, just a little.


End file.
